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Monday, October 19, 2009

Okey, dokey, honey, she said, just before hanging up... (April 23, 200)

Ending with, I need to know what's written about me on the Internet, on my reminding her about my writing on this blog. We will have lunch tomorrow in Central Square. Those readers living near Cambridge are invited to stop by and overhear our conversations, laden with the sexual tension of years of denial, loaded with them non-French double entendres. Or maybe its just my imagination.

Her parents will be visiting next week. There's my suggestion of meeting them for the first time. There's always been the problem of introducing them to a friend who is older than they are. And last Saturday's party for the boyfriend was another opportunity for me to show up and sow some psychic discord. But that won't happen. My pressing her to invite me was no more than entertainment for the both of us. My being there would, on the one hand, lead to the possibility of things being out of her control. On the other hand its easy for me to make the meeting of new people an entertaining event--which she likes.

A recent dream has me back in high school where there is nothing but a mountain of late and overdue work in front of me. But then real life on a daily basis is much like that. Not much has changed for me since high school, even after decades removed from the event. And Mrs Kuiper, an English teacher, even made an appearance.

What does one do with their body after death? Of course, being dead, the person asking the question about their own body won't likely be able to do anything. Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, is about a cadaver farm where corpses are investigated as they age and decay under a variety of conditions. So the idea came to me to join that select group of individuals to participate in a long-range project to aid forensic science. The thought left me with some uncomfortable feelings with an inexplicable origin. Those feelings would be gone with the onset of death. Not a lot happens from that point on that one can do anything about. You can only sit and imagine the idea of not being able to think of be aware of existing anymore. It seems unlikely that one would be able to do that after death--me being one not believing in any form of life after death. Should it come about that this writer ends up on the cadaver farm, readers are invited to stop by for a visit and look-see. There will be autographed photos for those of you who do show up.

How many visitors should one plan for? Perhaps a trust fund to keep the site constantly supplied with photos. After all, writing on the Internet could be around for years, centuries even. There's no reason for it to ever go away. There will be backup copies. The first versions stored at various locations on the Earth. Then at least one or so in orbit around the planet. Some copies on the Moon. For the long term, the Asteroids. Really long-term on Pluto so escape the consequences of the Sun exploding in a billion or more years. Finally, sending copies out of the Solar System and on the way to other stars--with a note asking the finder to please make a copy of this before reading. And will aliens pay royalties?

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